


Face the music

by Ludicrous



Series: Turning pages [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Past Drug Use, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:09:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Sherlock is back.Sherlock loves John. John loves Sherlock. But it's not as simple as that anymore, is it?





	1. One - Haunted Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John finally drinks tea.

Sherlock Holmes had fought Death. And won. Then he had given death to others. He had killed, hurt, shot, burned, drowned and tortured his enemies. But despite the popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had not gone mad.

Sherlock had spent two years in the John's floor of his mind palace. Going through memories, collecting data, deducing things. At first it had been easy : "John had used my soap that day"; "John didn't want to go to his date that night". He didn't miss John horribly, because he was always with John.

But then, he had thought about his emotions. He remembered clearly the nights of playing the violin during one of John's dates; but what had his music felt like?

It took him a lot of time to go through the entire floor, adding new data, adding words. These nights, the music had been angry - and jealous.

When they met, he had been intrigued. Then all his feelings mixed up; he was pleased, amused, fascinated, happy, and then...

Then Sherlock had been reviewing the night John saved his life. He remembered talking to Graham, realizing that it was John. It had been John all along. From the beginning he had protected Sherlock, kept him right.

In the middle of his maudlin thoughts, Sherlock had had an epiphany.

He was in love with John Hamish Watson. Even though John was, and still is, an idiot.

It had taken him some time to figure it out, but in his defence he needed to take care of Moriarty's men as well. And before the fall, there had been the cases and John's silly dates and Moriarty and the study of John's eyelashes.

Now the Amazing Sherlock Holmes is standing in the doorway, seeing John for the first time in years.

"Sh... Sherlock?"

Sherlock can't repress a smirk. He had missed John. Terribly. Even his brilliant memories don't give John's eyes justice.

"I fear my death has left rather brainless."

"But you... you were dead!"

Sherlock is too caught up in the study of John's new acquired bags under his eyes. He doesn't hear John's anger in his voice, he only raises an eyebrow as if this was a joke, and answers :

"Well, turns out Death is utterly boring."

Sherlock is only half listening to what he says. He's observing John. He notices the hair becoming grey at his temples; the stain on John's trousers. He can read the last months in John's eyes.

That's why he's not looking at John's hand, not before John's fist hits him. Once. Then John is stepping back, eyes wide.

"You... git ! You stupid git ! You're such a sodding idiot !"

John's crying, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He had thought that John would have found himself a wife, a new flat, a new life. But John still lives in 221B, and he's crying over a dead flatmate brought back to life. Should the dead flatmate hug him? Pat him awkwardly on the back?

John acts for both of them; stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock stands embarassingly still for a moment, before hugging John. He smells of coffee, and of a new shampoo. He doesn't smell like a John.

Sherlock lets go of John, and goes into the kitchen without a word. John has followed him, and watches with stupefaction as Sherlock pours water into the kettle.

"Are you making tea?"

"Really, John, I expected your stupidity to decrease with the years. It seems it's quite the contrary."

Sherlock looks into all the cupboards, brow furrowing.

"Where did you put my cup? You didn't throw away my stuff, did you?"

John doesn't answer. Sherlock sighs and finds a weird old cup in the fridge. Then he pours tea in the two cups, handing his to John and keeping the other one.

John looks at him over his cup. 

"Are you seriously not gonna explain?

\- Well, short version... not dead."

Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to explain to John how he managed to fake his death, how he killed all of Moriarty's men. He wants him to think he's brilliant man. Not a freak. Not a murderer.

But John's eyes are already darkening, and his fist is clenching again. So Sherlock talks again :

"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will.

\- You mean, I could have shot you."

Sherlock wants to reply sarcastically but he closes his mouth. He can see the pain in John's eyes. He can deduce the grief. He knows that John has been sleeping in his bed. He has missed Sherlock.

He's hurt because of Sherlock. So Sherlock keeps his mouth shut.

"One word, Sherlock. That's all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive.

\- I did ! I... last... violin..."

Sherlock Holmes is not stuttering. Holmes don't stutter. They have been making sophisticated sentences for centuries.

But none of Sherlock's ancestors had to tell John Watson that they had been senerading on the violin for him.

John raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't say anything. Sherlock can't even tell what John is thinking. It's infuriating.

They spend some time sipping in silence before John laughs :

"You're drinking tea... from a Winnie the Pooh cup ! Are you sure you didn't get your head hit lately?"

John is smiling at him, and Sherlock can't remember any happier time.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

Sherlock remains speechless. He's still looking at John's smile, how it stretches his lips and lights up his face. He had missed this smile.

"Well, I hope you're ready for a cartoon marathon !"


	2. Two - Apologize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are felt, and words are forgotten. They just can't make a sound.

They are sitting on the sofa, close but not touching. There's still this space between them, these unspoken words that remain stuck in their throats.

John's waiting for Sherlock to speak, to explain. But he doesn't say anything. He looks at the screen in silence.

He doesn't make a sound, even his breathing is silent. It doesn't sound like a Sherlock. It frightens John. He could run away as soon as John looks away. He could be gone, he could have been an illusion. He spends half the episode watching Sherlock, checking whether he's still there.

John knows that Sherlock probably sees that he's looking at him. Hell, the man probably read his mind the moment he entered the room. Sherlock probably already knows what John did during these two years.

But John doesn't know. He has no idea. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know why Sherlock did this to him. Was it a test? Was it a joke? A way to prove Moriarty wrong? "Sherlock is the best sociopath, look, he can make his John believe he's dead!"

John wants to laugh and he wants to cry. This is surreal. Sherlock can't possibly be standing next to him, watching Winnie the Pooh with him ! He must be dreaming. His mind created something far, far worse than the heat of the Afghanistan sun and the pain of losing Sherlock. Now John is feeling hope.

In which world would John watch Winnie the Pooh with Sherlock anyway? John pinches his arm, but nothing happens.

Apparently, in reality.

What was he thinking, deciding to watch a cartoon ! They shouldn't be in silence. John can't stand the silence anymore. He needs words.

John doesn't know Sherlock anymore. He looks thinner, more tired. He looks like a ghost. John's afraid of touching him and finding nothing but air.

And John has changed too, he knows it.

Just yesterday, he was a hopeless lovesick guy, waiting for the years to tick by. 

Now that he actually has Sherlock close by, thanks to some miracle, he doesn't know how to talk to him. Should he tell the amazing married-to-his-work Sherlock that he loves him? The bastard probably already knows. That night at Bart's, he laid his beautiful eyes on him and he deduced it.

Billions of people and John chose the one unattainable genius of the lot. Great.

John ruffles his hair. He feels exhausted, but he doesn't want to sleep. Sherlock could disappear as soon as John closes his eyes. John would wake up, cold and depressed. He doesn't want to imagine what would happen then.

John focuses on the cartoon. Winnie's saying :

"If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you."

John turns the tv off. He can't even watch a cartoon. What's wrong with him? 

Now the silence is even heavier between them. John can feel it against his skin, making him shiver. Sherlock doesn't move. He doesn't see what's in front of him. He's probably in his comfortable mind palace, going through some data.

John doesn't move either. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to touch Sherlock, hold his hand, pass a hand through his curls. God, he's turning into a blushing virgin.

He feels like they're in some kind of a dance, of which he doesn't know the steps. He's moving around blindly, trying to understand how he got here.

At that moment, Sherlock speaks, so quietly that John wonders whether he has heard him correctly.

"I'm sorry."

Then Sherlock's eyes meet his, and John holds his breath. He doesn't move. He waits. Under the light coming from the window, Sherlock's eyes look transparent. John could swear he's looking right at his soul.

"John. I'm sorry."

Nothing is said, yet everything is. John feels like he can breathe again. He smiles, a slow tug of his lips that speaks for him. He doesn't stop looking at Sherlock, though. He can't tear his eyes off his face. He had forgotten that Sherlock had a mole above his brow. In his dreams, he was never really there. John's brain couldn't reproduce Sherlock's beauty.

He wants to remember Sherlock, the soft rumble of his voice, his cheekbones, everything. In case Sherlock is a perfectly well-done hallucination.

Maybe his dreams will be more bearable if Sherlock looks realistic.

John's eyelids are getting heavier. He hasn't successfully slept since Sherlock's fall. There were the nightmares, and the insomnia. There was blood and pain. There were tears falling on Sherlock's shirt and rummaging under the crumpled sheets.

Sherlock is touching him. Just the tip of his finger. It sends a shiver down John's spine. He shouldn't react like this. But it has been so long, so long since Sherlock was there...

John's cheek finds Sherlock's shoulder. He stays there for a moment, waiting for the inevitable withdrawal. Maybe Sherlock is going to disappear into thin air. He could be a ghost.

But Sherlock's shoulder is still there. John moves closer, holding his breath. This can't be happening. Sherlock is dead. 

John must be crazy. But he doesn't find it in him to care. Not when it makes Sherlock come back.

John loses his doubts. If Sherlock is only there until John comes back to reality, John wants to enjoy it. He snuggles against Sherlock's side, and sighs contently.

John closes his eyes, and just before drifting off, he hears it.

Sherlock's heartbeat. A low, steady sound. Something John can rely on.

And he knows that, no matter how impossible it sounds, Sherlock is back.

~~  
John awakes slowly, then all at once. There is a warm body against him. Sherlock's.

He is still there. He's blissfully asleep, and his lips are moving silently. When John moves a bit, Sherlock mumbles something. John stops immediately. Sherlock must be telling him to go away. How could John think that Sherlock was actually asleep?

Then Sherlock stirs in his sleep, and talks again :

"Oy captain, mermen on the starboard side!"

John's mind takes an incredible amount of time to understand that Sherlock's talking in his sleep. In his defence, he's had a rough week.

Sherlock's lips move without forming a word. John gets closer, hoping to catch a sound. His lips look even more kissable now. But John doesn't move anymore. He knows that this is just another stolen moment, a memory to keep for later. Sherlock being close to him is a proof of his exhaustion. Sherlock doesn't want flatmates kissing him when he sleeps.

So John waits, hoping for another sound.

"Wonderful, bees."

Sherlock is adorable. Warmth ripples through John's stomach, and he finds himself smiling like an idiot. Hearing Sherlock talking about bees while sleeping is oddly endearing.

" 'Love bees."

John snaps out of his thoughts, and suddenly realizes he's pratically cuddling with Sherlock. The great Sherlock Holmes. Who's not interested.

John disentagles himself from their embrace and flees to the kitchen. He has to stop thinking about Sherlock that way. Sherlock doesn't love him. He doesn't feel anything.

Telling him his feelings would only scare him away. 

John brushes his tears away. He's not crying over Sherlock. He should be happy that his best friend returned god-knows-how from the dead.

Sherlock is his best friend again. It has to be enough.


	3. Three - Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock doesn't want to talk. So Mycroft does it for him.

John has made tea. But he's not drinking it. Over the steam emanating from his cup he's looking at the genius asleep on the sofa. He has tried for an hour to stay away from Sherlock, but he is drawn to the man. Even asleep Sherlock keeps his mysterious aura.

Without thinking John has moved closer. He sets the cold cup on the coffeetable. His hand reaches for Sherlock's curls and he starts combing through tangled locks. A sigh escapes Sherlock's lips. 

John holds his breath but Sherlock doesn't wake up. He leans into the touch. John feels a slow warmth spreading in his chest. Sherlock will never return his feelings, but John can at least have this moment.

John's thinking "Let it last forever" when his mobile chimes with a new message. John's hand leaves Sherlock's scalp. The moment's over.

John has moved away. Sherlock stirs in his sleep but doesn't wake up. John fears that Sherlock hasn't slept at all lately. He used to sleep lightly, jumping at each noise. John dreads to discover what was done to him to change him so deeply.

John receives another message. It has been a while since he used it, and in a way he already knows who is texting him. He finally checks his phone.

"There's a car for you. MH"

"I assure you that Sherlock can sleep on his own. MH"

Does Mycroft know? Did he really put cameras in the flat?

John feels foolish. Sherlock is going to know, if he hasn't deduced it yet. Mycroft will tell him, and they'll laugh while drinking expensive scotch.

John runs down the stairs. Mycroft is not the kind of man you want to keep waiting. The ginger man is standing next to his usual black car, his umbrella in one hand, his phone in the other. He acknowledges John with a sharp nod.

"John"

John doesn't answer. He's busy looking at his feet, feeling like a schoolboy who came home late. Finally, Mycroft opens the door for him and the car starts immediately.

"I heard that Sherlock came back to 221B Baker Street with you."

John stiffens, Mycroft's tone is ice cold as usual, but he can sense that there is no surprise in him.

"You don't seem surprised.

\- I'm not."

Just a few words, but they are enough to make John forget his former embarrassment. 

"So that's it, then? Everyone knew except me? Did you have a good laugh at least, watching me cr..."

The words catch in his throat. John doesn't know how to voice what he did when Sherlock was gone. And there's no way he's going to talk about how he felt with Sherlock's brother.

Mycroft doesn't answer. He looks at him, thinking. John feels like the good little rat in the lab.

"Did Mrs Hudson know, too? Did everyone know?"

John looks at Mycroft again. He looks at his eyes, sees a shadow there. He immediately knows that it isn't true. But he has to keep asking questions. He needs answers.

"Why you?"

And he doesn't say it, but the words "why not me?" hang in the air between them. John knows that he probably looks like more than a bestfriend by this time, but Mycroft can read him as easily as Sherlock.

John looks at his lap, outside, anywhere but at Mycroft. He feels ashamed of his words. This shouldn't have been his first question. He should have wanted to know how Sherlock did it. But truth is, John doesn't care. He doesn't care if the stupid git flew to save his life. He just wants to know why. Why he did it. Why he lied to him.

"I..."

John looks back at Mycroft. Something in his gaze changed. He seems more open. More honest. And the glimpse of truth that John can see is horrifying. Mycroft seems broken. Exhausted.

"I couldn't let him destroy Moriarty's web alone." Mycroft pauses, swallows, and says : "Someone had to protect him."

"I could have !" John is shouting now, but he can't help it. "I would have if you had let me !"

Mycroft looks at him like he just realized that he was talking with a being of an inferior intelligence.

"There were snipers, John.

\- What?"

Mycroft sighs : "Did you really think that Sherlock would have jumped, would have lied to yoy if he didn't have another choice?"

"They would have taken you down, John.

\- Why telling me now, then? After all this time?

\- Sherlock has finally killed every man of Moriarty's web."

John doesn't answer right away. He just realizes what the words "destroying Moriarty's web" meant. Sherlock was killing people. For several years, he hunted them down and killed them. He tortured them to have more information, then he went looking for another one.

But the first sentence that leaves John's lips isn't about the blood on Sherlock's hands. 

"Was he... is he injured?"

Mycroft stares at him with stupefaction, and John takes a moment to appreciate this moment. You don't shut a Holmes up everyday.

Then John realizes that Mycroft knows. He just saw the truth in his eyes, in his concern. This is not the reaction of a friend.

But Mycroft doesn't answer. The car stops and he stares at John for a moment longer before saying :

"I'm a busy man, John. You'll have to ask my dear brother."

With that, Mycroft stops looking at him. The conversation is over. John still has hundreds of questions, but he knows this is not the right moment.

He leaves the car without looking back.

~~~  
Sherlock awakes slowly. He had dreamt. Not this weird white smoke that he used to see in his sleep. Before, there was nothing, just the void in which Sherlock was drowning.

But now, Sherlock is back in 221B, and the colours are back in his dreams. There were pirates, ships, great aventures, and the ocean. There were bees, trees and love. It was infinite.

Sherlock has never slept like that. He has never dreamt like other people. He thought it was because of his genius. Apparently the only thing he was missing was a John in his arms.

But John isn't there anymore. This wakes Sherlock completely. He gets on his feet.

"John?"

Where is he? Did he leave him? Could John really leave him alone, without a proper goodbye?

John is not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. Not in his bedroom. Not in Sherlock's room. Not in the bathroom. Definitely not in the living room. Still not in the kitchen...

Sherlock sits in his chair. Gets up again. Takes out his violin.

He plays quickly, he plays his fear and his pain and his hope and his love. He plays Tchaikovsky. For John, it has always been Tchaikovsky.

A string breaks. The last note is still playing in the air, high and desperate. 

Sherlock lets the violin fall on the floor. It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters, because John is gone.

Sherlock sits on the sofa and waits. Hoping against hope. His breath comes out ragged.

Maybe this will end quickly.

Later, Sherlock doesn't know how much, the door opens. And closes.

Sherlock gets to his feet. Did John really come back? Is he going to take his stuff and go? Is he going in just to go out again?

The stairs are creaking under John's feet.

"Oh good, you're aw..."

John stops short in his tracks. He looks at Sherlock with surprise.

"What happened?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. What will he say? "You were gone for a few minutes and I went mad"? 

He looks at John instead. The stiffness of his shoulders. The new emotions twirling in his eyes. 

"You saw Mycroft."

It's not a question. Sherlock already knows what his brother said. He's so predictable. What he wants to hear is what John said. What he thought.

Is John going to stay, knowing that he killed men?

Sherlock prepares himself for a goodbye speech. He squares his shoulders and looks at the floor.

"Thank you. For saving... our lives."

Sherlock looks up. That was unexpected. John shouldn't feel grateful. He should be horrified, disgusted. He should be fleeing already. But he's still there. And he's still looking at Sherlock like he's the most fragile in the world.

"Did Mycroft tell you?

\- What?

\- I killed men, John. A lot of them. I'm a murderer, and my brother cleaned up my mess after me.

\- What are you talking about? You had to do it before you could come back to me.

\- I could have saved lives, if I wasn't..."

If he wasn't feeling. The moment he learnt that John was in danger, he accepted. It scares him, the amount of things he's prepared to do, just to keep John existing.  
He's so selfish. He didn't think of John left alone. He just knew that he couldn't continue without John. When he jumped, it was for him.

"If I had killed myself that day, if i had jumped for real, everything would have been the same. Except that these people would be alive.

\- They were murderers, Sherlock ! 

\- Not all of them. Some of them were innocents, but I didn't even wait to make sure, I...

\- Stop it. You can't talk like that. Don't you realize how miserable I was without you? I wasn't living, Sherlock. I needed you here. I... I need you here, now. So don't you go on talking about your suicide. I won't let you. You can't wish to be dead, because I wished for this miracle for two years."

John stops, but Sherlock doesn't reply. This is beyond everything he had hoped for. John isn't leaving. John isn't furious with him. John was missing him, as much as he was missing John. 

Could John feel anything for him?

No, that's impossible. Sherlock is forgetting all the times John pratically yelled "I'm not gay", all the dates John went through, all the girlfriends he had. 

Sherlock is John's bestfriend. It should be enough, it's already more than he expected.

A tear rolls on John's cheek. Sherlock doesn't ask what caused it. He gently wipes it off, and lets his fingers linger just a second too long.

John's eyes meet his own, and Sherlock holds his breath. He could swear that John is seeing everything. Sherlock's heart is racing. His stupid heart is still hoping for a perfect kiss, a happy end.

John looks away, and goes to his room without a word. The moment is over. Sherlock's heart shatters a little more.


	4. Four - Doctor John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which texts are sent, confessions are made and John nurses Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of past drug use. You may want to ignore the first part of the chapter if you are uncomfortable with that.

John has gone to work two hours and ten minutes ago. He left after shouting "I'm going to work !". He didn't bother opening Sherlock's door, checking if his flatmate was still there. 

Not that Sherlock is going anywhere. Last night his old wounds started itching again, and he reopened several of them during his sleep. He hasn't slept that much since his Father's burial. 

But now Sherlock is awake, and his whole chest aches, but he doesn't care. He has things to do, more important ones than staring blankly at the ceiling, which still sports a stain from the day he did an experience with goat's blood. Not one of his finest moments.

The greatest genius of the century gets up. He gets dressed. The pain is bearable, but every movement still sends ripples of pain through his body. Sherlock is used to the scars by now. They've always hurt, ghosts lingering on his skin. But this time it's different. Everything aches as if Sherlock is back in that horrible cave, back to being tortured, back to being dead and far from John...

Sherlock is glad that he's alone. An outsider could think that he's crying, when he's absolutely not. Holmes don't cry.

The brown jacket will hide any blood that could get on his shirt. It doesn't suit him at all (it looks in fact like something John would wear), but Sherlock doesn't have anything else.

Getting to Mrs Hudson's flat takes one point five minute more than usual. Sometimes Sherlock wishes his brain would stop. So he ignores these thoughts as he knocks on her door.

She screams, then she cries, of course. Then she comments on the jackets, saying it doesn't go with his hair. Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just lets her hoover other him. What he doesn't want is for her to see his wounds. She's like a mother to him, even if Sherlock would never admit it aloud. And he doesn't want her to worry about him, or to tell John about it.

Sherlock doesn't want John to know. If he sees Sherlock's chest, he will try to help him. He will be his doctor-self, generous and helpful. But it's not what Sherlock wants. He wants John nursing him, but not because he's a nice doctor. John should be tending to his wounds in a gentle way... In a loving way.

"Tea, dear?"

Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts long enough to decline the offer and go back to the flat. He still has four hours six minutes and thirty seconds before John's return. That is, unless John stays with his colleagues after his shifts. He's still mad at Sherlock, after all.

Sherlock spends three hours and forty-seven minutes cleaning the flat. He rubs at the stain on the ceiling, and he even cooked dinner in advance. Some french recipe he learnt with his brother when he was young.

His limbs feel heavy. Sherlock can feel the exhaustion in his body. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, an idea is formed. He tries dismissing it, but his body betrays him.

Each drop of blood throbs in his veins, waiting. Wanting something else. His hand twitch. He knows where they are. He kept them under John's floor boards.

Sherlock climbs the stairs effortlessly, which creak in warning. He stops for a second, but resumes his walking afterwards. He has chosen.

His hand finds the right spot under the bed. He retrieves the little box before going into the living room. This one smells too strongly of dust. 

Shelock's mobile chimes. He knows who it is. He doesn't answer. Mycroft will understand, in the end.

Sherlock takes the box in both hands, looking at it reverently. It's a goodbye of sorts. 

Before he can think better of it, he opens the window and throw the box as far as possible. A car alarm is activated nearby with a loud crash. A crooked smirk forms itself on Sherlock's face.

His mobile chimes again, but Sherlock doesn't have time to fetch it before some blood falls on the floor. He stares at it in horror. 

He needs to clean this before John comes home. He didn't clean everything to end up with a blood stain on the floor.

While some part of his brain points out that the Great Sherlock Holmes is acting like a housewife, Sherlock acts. He takes the hideous jacket off, hardly noticing that it's ruined. Then he uses his shirt to stop the bleeding then he goes into the bathroom. He needs stitches, but for now he'll start with water.

His mobile chimes again. This time Sherlock picks it up. Mycroft would never send three messages in a row, not if it wasn't important.

"Sherlock. Drop this. -MH"

"Nice throw. - MH"

This is... unusual. Mycroft uses messages to shout, ask, beg, or fake concern for his little brother. But he never compliments Sherlock. He listened too much to Father to do that. 

Mycroft isn't drunk. He almost never is, especially not at five o'clock. 

Then everything makes sense. Mycroft is seeing someone. Obviously someone he's known for some time. Mycroft doesn't choose his goldfish in one night.

And if Mycroft knows him, so does Sherlock. Could it be his driver, Jonathan (or was it James?) ? But surely Mycroft isn't that desperate. And John, or James, or whoever, would never talk Mycroft into being nicer with his brother.

It had to be someone who liked Sherlock. Well, someone who at least didn't dislike him.

Sherlock's blood ran cold. Of course ! Mycroft is seeing Lestrade. When Sherlock saw him for the first time, he knew that his brother would find the french origins and the greyish hair endearing. 

And now his brother had taken advantage of Sherlock's absence to use the DI ! The poor Gregory probably thought that Mycroft liked him... But Mycroft didn't care about anyone. He manipulates to get what he wants.

"How's Gavin? - SH"

Sherlock will have to stop this. Mycroft can't play with his inspector. Sherlock saw him first. He'll just have to talk Lestrade out of this.

Mycroft is taking his time with his answer. Sherlock smirks. Who's the intelligent brother now ?

Sherlock doesn't have time to savour his success, because at that exact moment he feels cold fingertips against his skin.

He jumps. His mobile falls on the floor. And his mind empties itself of every thought except one.

"John..." Sherlock's mouth talks without his head wanting it to.

"Sit down." John's voice isn't soft. It isn't some calm doctor voice. Sherlock can feel the controlled anger behind it.

And because Sherlock can't resist John's military voice, he obeys.

"Don't move."

John goes away. Sherlock quickly throws the shirt to the ground, and wash away the blood. He has just the time to sit down on the side of the bathtub again before John returns. He's holding bandages in one hand, and thread and needles in the other. He looks at his shirt on the floor, but only sighs.

"I liked this one."

Sherlock doesn't answer. He can't seem to remember how to talk. The fear of losing John, of him running away from Sherlock is too strong. It burns him from the inside.

John is touching his skin, feeling for any broken rib. He could just ask, and Sherlock would answer him with accuracy. But John's cold fingertips are caressing his chest, and Sherlock doesn't want him to stop. Sherlock is pratically melting into the touch. His breath catches in his throat. 

It has been so long since he had a contact with anyone. For the past few years he didn't talk, let alone touch anybody. He was alone, because alone used to be a protection. A shiny armor around his heart.

But in the end, his heart was already full of John.

And now John is close to him, his breath hitting his cheek, making the detective flush. His fingers has left his body, but Sherlock doesn't care. He turns his face towards John, meeting his eyes without a word...

John stands abruptly. "Right. You need stitches." Then he brings himself closer and asks with his eyes glued to the bathroom tiles : "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to answer. What is this about? Are they talking about that night at St Bart's? Or is this about his torture?

"John, I..."

Wonderful. He's back to the stuttering. Authors never described love as being so frustrating. Sherlock knew that these books Molly gave him were lying. One cannot simply feel "butterflies" in one's stomach. It's scientifically impossible.

"I didn't want to alarm you."

His answer doesn't seen to please John. But the doctor only goes back to his task, and starts doing the stitches. Sherlock knows that he has to talk now.

"When I was... away, I couldn't go back before I had eliminated every sniper Moriarty had prepared. It took me almost three years to kill yours. He was the most skilled one, of course. He kept hiding, and he was leaving hints all over the world. It was driving Mycroft mad."

Sherlock's lips quirks up in a smile when he recalls Mycroft's face. It's in one of his "good memory" drawer, inside the mind palace.

John's thumb is tracing patterns against his skin for absolutely no reason. Sherlock fails to suppress a shiver. He has to be more careful.

If he keeps talking about Mycroft, he will think of something else.

"Did you notice anything strange about Mycroft lately?"

John looks at him but doesn't answer. Obviously he doesn't know. Sherlock can almost hear the "brilliant !" John is going to utter when he'll hear Sherlock's deduction. Which he did from a single text. He's a genius, really.

"Of course you didn't. You saw him only yesterday, but you didn't observe him."

John doesn't react. He's used to Sherlock's rude remarks by now.

"A few hours ago, my dear brother sent a text. And I saw right through it. By the tone he was using, and the point at the end of it, he was unsually happy. And Mycroft is only happy when he has a goldfish. It doesn't happen a lot, the last time was when he was at university. But the guy, Bill or William, left him. I had told him so, but of course he didn't listen to me."

Why is Sherlock rambling like this? John doesn't want to know about Mycroft's old conquests. But Sherlock is feeling oddly stressed, and he can't seem to stop himself. John is looking at him in silence. It makes Sherlock nervous.

"Anyway, Mycroft is with Lestrade."

John's eyes widen, and Sherlock is glad he can still surprise him.

"Mycroft? With Greg? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, John, don't be ridiculous."

"I can't believe it ! Greg didn't say anything ! Of course, he talked about his divorce but I didn't know... Oh this is brilliant I'm gonna nag him about it for weeks !"

Sherlock tries not to beam. But John just said that it was brilliant, and it always makes him proud. He still remembers the first time John said the word, how Sherlock knew that this man would be there for him. How he could trust him, even if it didn't make any sense.

"And you deduced it from a single text ? It's amazing, really !"

Sherlock's heart goes faster. He'll have to determine how much later.

John cuts the thread he was sewing. He's finished, but his hands don't go away. They linger against his chest a bit too long. His palms brush against his ribcage.

And ironically, the butterflies start flying in his stomach. They are moving frenetically inside Sherlock, making him feel lightheaded. Stupid romantic novels.

"There. All done."

John removes his hands, and Sherlock feels empty. The air feels icy against his chest, now that John's hands aren't there.

John looks at him in wonder but doesn't say anything more. He doesn't move away, in fact he seems to be getting closer. Is he going to...?

Sherlock's heart leaps in his throat, and he tries not to panic. But the stubborn butterflies aren't listening. John's face is a few inches away, and Sherlock admires everything, even the little patch of skin he missed while shaving this morning. He's beautiful, and Sherlock wants to look at him forever. Even if it sounds totally foolish.

John abruptly gets up. He seems lost, and a whole lot of other emotions Sherlock doesn't want to deduce. He doesn't want to read the fear, the rejection on John's face. He cannot lose him.

John nods a few times, without saying anything, then he goes away.

Sherlock's heart seems to be going too slowly now.

He gets up, gathers his shirt and his phone. He has a new message.

"Gregory is fine. How's John? -MH"

Sherlock doesn't even know what to answer right now. He can hear in his ear the whispers of Mycroft's voice... "Who's the most intelligent brother now?"


	5. Five - A moment of stillness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John stop avoiding each other and start sharing their silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I'm late ! This chapter just wouldn't let itself be written. Anyway, it's here now (finally) and I hope you enjoy it !

John waits an hour for his shift to begin in the break room. He drinks bitter coffee and watches as people rush inside and leave almost immediately.

John doesn't want to feel bad for being here, but he can't help thinking of what Sherlock will feel. He'll wake up in an empty flat, because John was too much of a coward to stay.

Yesterday, he almost kissed his best friend. He can't let that happen again. He's hurting Sherlock, but it will be much worse if he decides to snog him between two gulps of tea. Just picturing Sherlock's tongue against his own makes John shiver.

He has to regain control of his body. He has to stay away from these dreamy cheekbones for a while. That way he can stop rambling about them like a 15-year-old girl.

John must have dozed off in front of his now cold coffee because he suddenly feels Sarah shaking his shoulder. She glares at him but there is a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Hiding from Holmes again?"

John only grunts in reply. The last thing he wants is talking with Sarah about that. He already knows what she'll say.

Unfortunately, Sarah senses that something's off, and she takes a seat beside John.

"Come on, Watson. Spill it out. I won't judge."

She stares at him for a whole five seconds before John starts talking. In his defence, she looks persuasive. And John already knows that she is almost as stubborn as Sherlock. Which is saying something.

He talks about last night, about Sherlock's scars. About how he had felt when he saw them, how angry and protective he had been. About the way he had lost his head just by touching Sherlock's chest. About the end of the night. And he ends his story with him coming one hour early so he can avoid seeing Sherlock. His throat is so dry afterwards that he takes a gulp of coffee before remembering that he hates that thing.

Sarah frowns at him before exclaiming :

"You idiot !"

It sounds less affectionate in her mouth than in Sherlock's.

John only gapes, not bothering with answering her. He knows that she'll speak for the two of them.

"Basically, you just fled?"

"I didn't ! I bravely retreated to my room !" John sounds indignant, but he's only jocking. He doesn't want to talk seriously about this. He doesn't want to talk at all.

"Whatever you say, Watson.

\- Quit calling me..."

At this precise moment, Abigail enters the room. Apparently someone up there is holding grudges against John.

John closes his mouth as she opens the door but she's smarter than that. In a few seconds she's sat next to them and asks :

"So? What happened?

\- It's more about what didn't happen, Abby." Sarah says, staring at John.

He knows that it's too late now. They're never letting him go. He quickly decides to make a run for it.

"I should go though, my shift is just...

-Watson, keep your arse on that chair and listen to me." John flinches at the swearing and Sarah grins at him. "He's not going to wait for you all his freaking life. Now you get out there and confess your love or something because I'm not going to stand your puppy eyes filled with tears much longer.

\- My eyes aren't...

\- Let me talk. You fucked it up. Now fix it."

With that, Sarah gets up and leaves, Abby following her. John is left alone, his mouth hanging wide.

~~~  
By the time he finishes his shift, John is exhausted. He's tired of thinking about Sarah's words. He's tired of imagining what will happen. He's tired of hoping Sherlock will feel something.

John walks back to 221B, because he needs a few minutes before talking to Sherlock.

But he shouldn't have worried. When he walks into the flat, it's empty.

John breaks into a cold sweat. Sherlock can't do this to him. Sherlock has to stay home, so John can come home to him.

His room is empty. There is his usual mess, a few new books, and a pile of magazines John never saw. He would have scoffed at the thought of Sherlock reading "My knight in golden armour" and Elle. Except that Sherlock is not there to sulk about it and John's panicking his breath comes out ragged even though he's taking a lot of breaths he is a doctor he should know how to breathe properly why is it not working-

Someone is talking to him. A small voice, not Sherlock's rough one.

John's being pushed towards his bed by Mrs Hudson's hands. She pulls his shirt up, and then he makes him lie down. And he's so exhausted, so empty. He feels like that bedroom. He's a mess, just waiting for Sherlock to come back. Except that he is not. He wasn't going to.

John closes his eyes, and a single tear falls on the sheets.

Then the cold blackness of his dreams takes him.  
~~~

Mike is sat on a stool next to him in the lab. He's smiling softly, like every half-faded memory ought to.

His hair isn't brushed, it falls on his shoulders and when John looks at him again Sarah looks back.

She scowls at him. She opens her mouth, and a murmur comes out :

"You let me down.

\- I'm sorry. We just... we weren't good together and -

\- You loved him more."

She has a small smile then, and in her eyes a crazy light appears.

"But look, now. You killed him too. You let us down. You killed us both."

Blood is falling on her face, and suddenly John is back in Afghanistan. Did he ever escape that place?

Sarah is lying in the dirt. John's friend just received a bullet, and he can tell that he's not going to last. He's going to be another soldier dead. One of many.

John is giving him pain killers, trying hard not to cry when he hears her words again.

_killed us both_...

John turns his head, and Sherlock is lying in the dirt too. He has blood on his beautiful curls and John pushes them away so he can look at Sherlock for the last time to give him a proper goodbye...

"Sherl..." the word die in his throat, and Sherlock isn't listening anymore. He isn't looking anywhere. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind John.

John falls against his chest, crying and crying and crying. He hears Sherlock's heartbeat fading more and more.

"Don't go, don't you dare go..." He repeats it again and again, but only silence answers him.

Sherlock's heart doesn't beat anymore.

He died looking at the sky.  
~~~

John wakes up with a gasp. Tears are flowing down his cheeks.

It takes him a moment to realise that he's back at the flat. There isn't any desert before him, just the ceiling.

John has trouble breathing again. The silence is compressing his lungs, emptying them.

John remembers. Sherlock's heartbeat, how it died in his ear...

Without thinking, John gets up. He has to look at Sherlock, to make sure he's alive...

Once standing in front of Sherlock's room, he recalls yesterday. Sherlock is not there anymore.

Maybe John could start sleeping in his bed, like he used to. He might smell Sherlock on the pillow.

Or John could take the gun in Sherlock's drawer. Like he wants to.

John opens the door. And lets an audible gasp.

Sherlock is sleeping in his bed.

John can finally let some tension go? He lets out a shaky breath in the night. Sherlock doesn't move.

Is he dead?

As a doctor, he remembers what his textbooks said. And he knows that it's not possible, that someone as young as Sherlock cannot possibly die in his sleep.  
But he also remembers Sherlock's eyes staring unblinkingly at the sky. He remembers his pulse fading into nothingness. He remembers watching him die.

So John decides to approach Sherlock, just to check his pulse. He needs it.

His fingers find the cold skin under the sheets. He's real, then. Or at least real for John, but that's enough. John need him.

There's a pulse under his fingers. He's alive. Everything's fine. Sherlock's fine.

"John."

John nearly jumps out of his skin. Sherlock is alive and awake.

His fingers left Sherlock's wrist. They feel like they're burning. They feel tingling. They ache to feel Sherlock's skin again.

Maybe it's because John is exhausted. Maybe it's because of his nightmare. Maybe it's because he missed Sherlock. Maybe it's because of the way Sherlock whispered his name, like it was the most precious sound in the world. Maybe it's because of the night.

It doesn't matter. What matters is that John murmurs in the night :

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

What matters is that they don't need other words. Sherlock just shifts in his bed, and John climbs into it. Nothing matters, except that night.  
~~~

Sometime during the night, Sherlock's arm finds John's waist. Not long after that, John's fingers dance over Sherlock's chest, healing his scars.

And then they stop moving. They lie still, even for just a moment.


	6. Six - Total eclipse of the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock needs John, John needs Sherlock but neither of them get what they need.
> 
> (Title from Bonnie Tyler's song)

Sherlock wakes up at six thirty, angry for having slept so long. Lately, his body has been needing more and more sleep to function. It's infuriating, to say the least. He hasn't even been able to experiment again.

Sherlock stirs a little, keeping his eyes closed. The first thing the detective _feels_ is warmth against him. Then he realizes where his arm is.

He spent the night with his arm resting on John. His heart picks up, which doesn't help the consulting detective. He has to think about this, presumably before John wakes up.

If John slept with him without actually _sleeping_ with him, what does it mean? Are they friends... are they more than that? He wants to wake John to ask him. He's the one he usually talks to when it comes to feelings.

But he doesn't. He's too scared of seeing John panic when he wakes up. He's afraid of what's going to happen now.

Sherlock wonders whether John meant what happened last night. For Sherlock, it was perfect. He slept well, something he hadn't done since he was sleeping with Redbeard. But are John's feelings as strong as his? His brain doesn't come up with any answer. Sherlock is rubbish at feelings.

Somewhere in the room, his mobile chimes. It's probably Jeff. Sherlock starts thinking about his talk with Lestrade yesterday. It has certainly been funny to nag him about Mycroft. Even if Sherlock had seen the glint of knowledge in the inspector's eyes when he had mentioned John. Mycroft must have -

John's waist dances under his hand. The tip of his fingers feel cold and hot at the same time. This isn't physically possible. When did Sherlock start feeling instead of thinking? 

The greatest detective of his century is so busy feeling that he doesn't notice that John is awake. He really should start using his brain. He has a reputation to uphold, after all. 

"Mornin' "

John's voice is rough, it rumbles against Sherlock's chest and makes him shiver. 

John's eyes are still glued with sleep, it makes them look lighter, softer. Sherlock feels like John is caressing him with his eyes. It doesn't help with his shivers.

There's a smile tugging at John's lips, and Sherlock wants to kiss it.

He doesn't. He's a brilliant man, whose actions are logical. Kissing John is nothing but sensible right now.

"I... I'll make you a cup of tea." Sherlock pratically jumps out of the bed, into reality.

Shelock Holmes had only made two cups of tea in his entire life - one for Mycroft when Father died, and one for Mrs Hudson when he met her. Now he was going to destroy his record for the sake of his friendship with John.

Sherlock is running away from the only man he ever loved - he has conducted sixty-three tests on himself to acknowledge that - because he can't bear to lose him. John has to stay with him.

Sherlock lets the tea brew too long to take a quick shower. It will probably taste disgusting now. 

Sherlock shouldn't feel too surprised. He always messes everything up. He remembers Father telling him so the last time they saw each other. The last sentence his father uttered to him before he died was one of disappointment. 

Sherlock shouldn't let himself dwell in self-loathing. The amazing Sherlock Holmes is selfish and narcissistic. He's not supposed to _doubt_ himself. This would be quite ludicrous.

Sherlock suddenly remembers the tea in his hands, now lukewarm. This cup of tea is clearly not going to be good.

"Any reason why this is taking you so long?" 

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin. He shouldn't be that surprised. They're living together, after all. John has every right of stepping into their kitchen, even if he's only wearing jeans.

"I...

\- Tell me you've done this before.

\- Obviously."

Sherlock turns his back on John to have the time to let his heart slow down. And to pick up a custer for the cup, of course.

He offers it to John without another word. He isn't able to talk at the moment, the buzz in his head is too loud.

John has a small smile when he takes the cup. He is not supposed to be so gentle with Sherlock. Nobody is.

But then, John never did what he was supposed to.

"It's cold."

Sherlock feels a blush creeping up on his neck. When did he start blushing? He's feeling self-conscious for the first time in his life.. He doesn't like it. He has to make it stop.

"I have to go... retrieve my phone.

\- Wait !" John's hand catches his wrist, holding him close. Sherlock can feel John's breath hitting his cheeks. This has to stop.

Sherlock flinches away, and John looks hurt. But he doesn't understand what he's doing to Sherlock. It's driving him crazy. 

"Are you still... Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock wants to say yes. He wants to shout that he's hurting him by not smiling as hard as he does, not feeling as much as he does. But he reminds himself that John doesn't care about that. He was asking about his scars. Right.

"No." His voice is just a murmur. He doesn't know how to talk anymore. He feels like a child again. It's not really pleasant.

"Okay..." John is frowning. Sherlock is already ruining it. He knew it. He's used to pushing everyone away. He just thought that John wasn't a part of 'everyone'. "Wanna tell me where you went off to yesterday?

\- I..." Sherlock takes a breath to think more clearly : "I saw Lestrade. He seemed quite shocked to see me. He offered me a case." Sherlock's eyes are shining now, and he sports a small smile : "It's an old one. A year ago there had been twelve murders. One each Tuesday. Then nothing. Obviously, the Yard didn't find who did it. I already have ideas, but I need to check something first. You coming?"

Sherlock was so engrossed in his story that he didn't notice how John stopped smiling, how he crossed his arms and glared at him. 

"No."

Sherlock is already at the door, coat in hand, when he hears John's answer. He stops.

John is supposed to follow him everywhere, anywhere. At the beginning, the others told him to keep his distance, but he never did. Is he really giving up now?

"What?" Sherlock steps back from John. There's something cold in the pit of his stomach. He's probably going to throw up afterwards. After... after John leaves him.

Sherlock always knew that this moment would come. But he had pictured it after John met someone new, someone more interesting. A woman. He had imagined a wedding, and him left alone in the flat.

He thought that he still had time.

"You heard me. I'm not going. I have to work today."

Sherlock can't look John in the eye anymore. His eyes fall on John's bare chest, and he quickly averts his gaze. He's not allowed this sight. Yesterday was a mistake, and John feels it. He's going to leave him, one step at a time.

"You always expect me to follow. Well this time I'm not. Go solve your case.

\- Fine. Go sleep with Sarah."

The words are out of Sherlock's mouth before he can stop them, and when he turns to leave two strong arms spin him around and pin him to the wall. 

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" John doesn't let him reply "Are you seriously implying that I don't want to follow you because I have a freakin' one-night stand? Do you think so badly of me? If I wasn't already late I would probably try to make some sense out of this but I already made too much efforts. Don't wait up for me."

John goes to the door, comes back still fuming, grabs the first shirt he finds lying on the floor and goes away without looking back. 

If he had, he would have seen Sherlock crying. He would have seen all the cracks in the wall Sherlock has so carefully built around himself. He would have realized that Sherlock is as lost as he is. He would have stayed. He would have hugged him. 

But he doesn't look back. And so, he breaks Sherlock's heart without knowing it.  
~~~

Sherlock faintly hears John slamming the door. His mind seems foggy. He has to go to his mind palace. He has to study the case.

While standing in the middle of the kitchen, Sherlock goes very still. He almost stops breathing. Breathing without John is hard.

But he has done it before. And he'll do it again.

So Sherlock concentrates on the case. He classifies pieces of information, the ones Lestrade gave him yesterday.

Then he slowly comes back to reality to check what was the message Lestrade sent him earlier. Only to see Mrs Hudson standing in front of him, a sad smile plastered to her face.

"How are you doing, dear?

\- I'm fine." Sherlock lies. He doesn't want her to talk. 

"What happened?" Her tone is too soft. Sherlock can sense that a talk about his feelings is about to begin.

"Don't you have things to do, Mrs Hudson?

\- Oh no, I have until five o'clock, then Mrs Mackenzie comes to tea.

\- I don't have anything to say. You should go and leave me to solve my case." Sherlock is being rude, hoping against hope that she will leave. But she doesn't.

"Oh, Sherlock... Is it that bad?

\- What gave it away?" Sherlock is genuinely puzzled, even if he hides it with a scoff. Mrs Hudson never observes people.

"You always look sad when he's not here, but this time... it's different."

Sherlock sighs. He should probably let her know that John is not coming back tonight.

"John does not wish to pursue our partnership together. I let him go." Sherlock's words are cold, and he keeps his tone even, but Mrs Hudson sees right through it.

"Oh, Sherlock !" She hugs him, and he pats her awkwardly on the back without any words. "But you love him, don't you? You have to tell him that, dear !

\- I... it doesn't matter anymore. This has come to an end, as I feared it would."

Mrs Hudson is looking at him sternly. Everyone thinks that Mrs Hudson is like a mother to Sherloxk, but in moments like this he sees a younger Mycroft, glaring at his little brother.

Sherlock's tired of feeling like a little boy. He begins to turn away, but Mrs Hudson grabs his wrist. She can have strength when she wants to.

"Now you listen to me, boy. I'm not your mother, but when I tell you that John is broken without you and that you shouldn't let him wander alone, I expect you to listen ! You weren't there yesterday afternoon ! You weren't there a month ago ! You didn't see him crying day in, day out !" Then she stops, because she sees how much she's hurting Sherlock. "I'm only telling you that so you can talk to him, dear, before it's too late."

After a pat on his cheek, she leaves the room. Sherlock is left alone, and he whispers to the empty space ahead of him : "I'll think about it."  
~~~

When John comes back from his shift, he climbs the stairs noiselessly, hoping to avoid Sherlock. He hasn't stopped thinking about him, since he had taken his shirt by mistake this morning and has thus spent his day smelling Sherlock. John hopes that he'll be able to change quietly before he has to talk with his friend.

But Sherlock is, once again, nowhere to be seen.

John flops onto his chair, trying not to stare at the empty chair in front of him. It doesn't work really well.

John can't help thinking about what he'll say to Sherlock when he gets back - if he gets back. He doesn't want to have a fight with him again but he's not ready to forgive him. Sherlock is always counting on him, "his blogger". He doesn't care about his feelings. He doesn't think about them, because that's something he never experienced himself. He's a man of science.

The doorbell ringing stops him short in his thoughts. John nearly falls out of his chair in his haste to open the door. Could it be Sherlock? Maybe the idiot decided to come back from his case, maybe he's going to apologize.

But he could also have finished early. John slows down a little at the thought, but he still finds himself in front of the door. Nothing left to do but to open it.

No Sherlock on the porch. Just Molly and her twitching smile. It disappears as soon as she discovers that Sherlock is not there. A small blush creeps on her cheeks instead.

"I, um. I just wanted get back a book of mine... it's of no importance, really." She avoids his gaze, but after a second, her eyes are back on him and she asks : "How are you doing, John?" 

Clever girl. John suddenly wishes he were back in his flat, alone.

"I'm fine." And then, because he feels bad for lying, he adds : "Do you want to come in?"

She squints at him suspiciously before brushing past him and climbing the stairs. He has no choice but to follow her.

They face each other, and she asks : "What happened?" 

Her tone is determined, and it strucks John that she's much more than the shy girl he thought she was. She hides it well. Maybe that's why Sherlock likes her.

Thinking of Sherlock isn't helping. John doesn't want to talk about this, even less with Molly. She's Sherlock's friend first - if Sherlock ever had friends.

John wants to get stupidly drunk and he wants to forget about his stupidly stupid feelings. If that makes sense at all.

"Don't you have corpses, in your morgue, to take care of? I mean..." The words flows out of his mouth easily, and John knows that he's being rude. But that way Molly can leave him be.

"John, if you think that's going to work on me... I'm used to being insulted now." She has a little laugh. It doesn't sound amused at all.

"I don't want to talk about it. Now could you please go?

\- Is it that bad?" There's something like concern in her eyes and it makes John look away.

"What gave it away?" John answers with another question, hoping to avoid mentioning Sherlock. It feels too much like when Sherlock was "dead".

"Your eyes are darkened now." Molly answers in a whisper. "You look... empty when he's not there."

Her expression is too honest. John feels like he has to answer her now, even if he knows that she'll leave him alone if he asks her to. John lets a sigh, and closes his eyes briefly to gather his thoughts. He has to explain this briefly.

"Sherlock went back to his cases... without me. I think that we're more different than we used to be." John's voice breaks at the end, and he hides it with a cough. But Molly sees right through it.

"Oh, John !" She hugs him, and John stumbles backwards a little before clinging to her. Her words are hushed against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt : "But you love him, don't you? You have to tell him that !"

He speaks against her hair : "He... It doesn't matter anymore. He's grown tired of me. I knew that we weren't a forever."

Molly holds him at arm's length, a new kind of authority in her eyes. She seems pissed, and John prepares for a lecture which soon comes bursting through her lips : "Now you listen to me, John ! We may not be close, but believe me when I say that you have to talk to him ! I knew him before he met you. He was a wreck ! And when he came to me, telling me that he wasn't dead, I saw that it wasn't true. Because without you, he was dying inside. He was broken, convinced that no one would stay with him, that no one would love him ! You proved him wrong, don't leave now ! Someone has to tell him that he's loved."

In her eyes, something breaks and John knows that she wishes she could be the one to tell Sherlock. But then, she blinks and it's gone.

"Tell him that, before it's too late."

John wants to say that it's already too late, but what comes out of his mouth is : "Excuse me. I have to go... make a phone call."

He steps away from her, and goes outside. Molly looks at John, wearing Sherlock's white shirt. It hangs at the hips and the sleeves are too long, but in a way, it suits him.

John doesn't catch the sad smile on Molly's face.


	7. Seven - Le reste du temps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they act like two idiots in love before they get their happy end.
> 
> The title comes from a song by Cabrel, I hope it doesn't bother you that it's in french ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, final chapter already !
> 
> I don't intend to write a sequel for now, maybe just a story about how Mycroft and Greg fell in love, if you're interested in reading it.
> 
> I really hope that you will like this chapter, please let me know if you do (or if you don't) !

John steps out of 221B Baker Street and starts dialing Greg's number.  
~~~

An hour later, John is staring crossly at his eighth pint which seems to be swaying. It's distracting, John wishes it would stop moving.

"Joooohn !" Greg shouts in his ear, and it makes John stumble backwards.

The Earth turns and turns until suddenly everything is stable again and John is lying on the floor. Greg must be laughing besides him, because John can hear a faint sound.

He gets up, glares at nobody in particular and sits again. These stools can be tricky sometimes. He has to be careful.

When he goes back to staring at his glass, Greg is still chuckling. It annoys John, so he snaps : "Don't ya have a case... a case with Mister Consulting Detective?"

Greg looks at him with a faint smile. There is a little silence, and John can hear his blood pulsing through his veins. Greg has to concentrate before saying : "Oh no... case done... it was Camael ! Camael did it !" Greg spits before adding : " But Sherl, Sherl, Sherlock went back to Jawn ! He had to talk to pretty Jawwn !"

Then Greg manages to repeat "Jawn" several times before huffing and letting his head bang on the table.

After a moment of utter silence, John's brain catches up with what John's ears heard.

"That's... that's me !

\- Mm... ah, yes." Greg pauses, thinks about his next sentence : "Sherlock had to tell Jawn I love you."

John's foggy mind struggles with the last sentence. He is faintly conscious of its importance. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he knows that he has to leave this place.

John pushes his glass away, and it clatters to the floor. The sound startles John and he feels a little more awake. He manages to pronounce his thoughts - almost - without slurring : 

"I've to go, Greg. I've to... I need to talk to Sherlock."

Greg only grunts in reply, and John figures that his friend can't manage to go back home on his own.

The lights are blinding John, but he makes an effort to concentrate. He has to call a cab...

John takes his phone out without dropping it to the floor - a small miracle - and calls Mycroft.

"Doctor Watson? Is everything alright?

\- Oh, yes... yes yes yes ... Sherlock loves me.

\- Are you drunk?

\- Mmmaybe. Greg is, too."

At the mention of his name, Greg starts singing something that sounds too much like an old Madonna song. John tries to ignore it. It's distracting and he has something to remember.

When he looks at his phone again, he sees that the call has been disconnected. It seems like a really long word for something so simple. It's a word with a lot of letters, when it just means putting your thumb on your phone. John wants to mention that to Greg, but the detective is too engrossed in singing the chorus to notice anything.

A few minutes later, Mycroft appears at the door of the pub, looking like he just stepped out of a storm. 

He must have been worried, John thinks.

The next second, the thought is deleted and John is left with a weirdly empty mind.

"Do you need a ride home, John?"

John just shakes his head. He has the feeling that if he steps in a car now, he's going to throw up over leather seats. And he's not sure whether Mycroft would have him killed for that or not.

Mycroft and Greg take a few steps. Or rather, Mycroft pratically carries Greg out of the pub. His hand rubs little circles against Greg's shoulderblade.

It takes John a few moments to realize that he's stupidly standing in a pub, in the middle of a puddle of beer. He shakes his head. He has to find Sherlock.

John leaves the pub before the owner can stop him and ask him for money. He walks back groggily to his flat. Sherlock's flat. Their flat. The fresh air stops John from losing himself in thought.

It takes John almost an hour to make a 20-minute trip, because he gets lost twice. But in the end, he follows the sound of Sherlock's violin. There is light flooding through the window of their living room. 

He stumbles into the hallway, but hopefully doesn't make enough noise to wake Mrs Hudson up.

As he climbs the stairs, the music stops abruptly. It makes John sway on the twelfth step before he regains his balance.

When he finally gets to their flat, Sherlock is expecting him, even if he tries not to show it. He's sitting on his chair, looking at the skull on his lap with fury.

When John trips on the rug, Sherlock lets the skull roll to the floor as he leaps up.

"John? Are you okay?"

There's concern in his voice, and John should be able to read easily his eyes, but he's too tipsy to care.

"'M fiiiine." John mumbles. His tongue is still heavy, even if he can feels his mind clearing a bit.

He hangs up his coat, and when he turns round he finds himself in front of a glass filled with water. The glass is held by long fingers that John brushes as he takes it.

"Ta'"

The water clears completely John's foggy mind. He looks up to Sherlock, and feels like he's waking up. It would be nice if Sherlock wasn't frowning at him.

"Aren't you tracking down a serial killer?"

Sherlock sighs disdainfully before replying : "It deserves barely a 3. The day chosen for the murders was the day of Camael. A crazy Christian seemed to think that he could embody the angel of war, and do the justice by himself. I let the police take care of this lunatic."

John smiles at Sherlock, regretting to have missed that case. But he knows that showing Sherlock that he has a life outside of him was important.

John's smile fades when Sherlock doesn't return it. Sherlock seems distant, like he wishes to be alone. It used to happen before, but John thought that Sherlock had grown more comfortable with him over time. Maybe he was wrong.

"What about you? I thought that you were on a date." Sherlock's body seems relaxed, yet his tone is cautious. He averts John's gaze.

At that moment, Greg's words echo in John's mind.

_Sherlock had to tell Jawn I love you_

Sherlock isn't cold, he's keeping his distance because he's hurt. Because he loves John and he thinks that John doesn't love him back. But how couldn't he? John was drawn to Sherlock from their very first meeting.

"You idiot" whispers John at nobody in particular. Maybe at both of them.

Then he places his hands on each of Sherlock's cheeks. He grazes his cheekbones with his thumbs and Sherlock lets out a low hum. It's enough to make John stand on tiptoe and close the distance between their lips. He does it slowly, so Sherlock has the time to jump back, to get rid of him and find another flatmate. But it doesn't happen. Sherlock leans into the touch instead.

Their first kiss is only a soft peck on the mouth. John doesn't have time to enjoy it, to touch and smell and hear and taste and see every inch of Sherlock. But this kiss isn't about getting to know his body. It's about finally getting what they both wanted. It's about John brushing his lips against Sherlock's again to make sure that he's okay, that they're okay.  
And when it's over, John can feel a tingle on his lips.

Except that it's not over. Sherlock is looming over him with a small smile on his lips. It strucks John that it's the first time that Sherlock seems content. When John saw him smile, it was either scary or sad. John never got to see Sherlock's real smile. And it's a beautiful one, full of honesty. It makes John shiver.

Their foreheads touch, and they breathe each other's air for a while. Neither of them say a word. It lasts just long enough for John to realize that he's finally, _finally_ kissing Sherlock. He shivers again, and it makes Sherlock chuckle. John doesn't see his smirk, but he can feel it as Sherlock's mouth hovers over his.

Then they're kissing again, and this time John feels it all. Sherlock's lips are soft and pliant under John's. Their mouths don't fit perfectly together yet, at some point Sherlock's nose bumps against John's. They probably look like two teenagers having their first kiss. But it doesn't matter if it's not perfect, if it's not as synchronised as one of John's dreams. It feels perfect, because it's with Sherlock and it's real.

When their lips part, Sherlock exhales a little sigh, whispering John's name with adoration. It leaves goosebumps on John's left cheek. He hopes that the detective didn't notice.

John's nose is now pressed against Sherlock's neck and his smell invades John's nostrils. It's a mixture of chemicals, dark chocolate, sweat and mint. It creates something musky that can only be labeled as Sherlock. John could inhale only this smell from now on.

Something warm grows in John's stomach, before settling in his chest. It takes him a moment to understand that it's what happiness feels like.

They keep pecking each other's mouth while John's hands explore Sherlock's chest, the right one getting under Sherlock's shirt while the other ruffles the soft fabric. Sherlock's hands roam up and down John's back. It feels like his hands are everywhere at once.

Suddenly, Sherlock's mouth leaves his own, and John tries not to whimper at the loss of contact. Sherlock holds him close instead. John's ear ends up against Sherlock's chest, and he can hear the faint echo of his fluttering heartbeat. John stays like this for a moment, contemplating the idea of staying there forever.

But between one second and the next, Sherlock has sauntered away to his violin, exclaiming : "I want you to hear my new composition !".

When he faces John again and starts playing, Sherlock keeps his gaze on John. His eyes seem to be dark blue in the shadow where they're hidden. John is entranced by the way his eyes keep changing colors. He wishes that he had noticed which colour they were earlier.

Then Sherlock starts playing, and John forgets about his train of thought. Sherlock's hands dance on the violin and produce a slow waltz. It's high and melancholic at first, but then Sherlock adds other strings and changes the rhythm. He's humming to the song he created, and it's so low that John can only imagine what he's really singing. The song reminds John of the scent of roses, even if it doesn't make any sense.  
Sherlock's hands go still on his violin as the song comes to an end. He hasn't stopped looking at John.

Greg's words come to John's mind once again. Sherlock is telling him that he loves him, even if he doesn't know quite how. He is doing in his own way. He's trying so much already, even if John has hurt him.

So John tells him that he loved him too in the only way he knows. He murmures : "It makes me think about the scent of roses." He takes a step forward before adding : "I love it.".

Sherlock's eyes widens and he lets his violin lay on the floor, not breaking eye contact. Then he replies : "Come to bed with me".

That night, they both lay on Sherlock's bed, clinging to each other. There are tears on Sherlock's cheeks, but John dries them tenderly. Silently, John tells Sherlock that everything is okay, now. 

And they will remember that night, because it's the first night of the rest of their lives.

~~~

Maybe the greatest detective of our time doesn't know anything about feelings, but he is at least willing to try. And John Watson is going to teach him.


End file.
